‘My daughter Rebecca loved art, too.’ Mrs Peterson’s voice trembled. ‘She would have loved that painting. Its symbolism…building something together, even when everything seems to be ruined.’
She put her arms around me and we both cried, two strangers bound by loss and a moment at 35,000 feet.
‘Spend Christmas with me,’ she said finally. ‘No one should be alone on Christmas Day!’
The next morning we sat in her sunny kitchen and shared stories over coffee and homemade cinnamon rolls. The kitchen smelled of vanilla and spices, warm and cosy, something I’d never had in my basement flat.
‘Rebecca used to make these every Christmas morning,’ Mrs Peterson said, handing me another roll. ‘She insisted on making them from scratch, even though I told her store-bought ones were perfectly fine.’
‘Mum had exactly the same attitude to Sunday pancakes,’ I smiled. ‘She used to say the secret ingredient was love.’
‘Sounds like your mum was an amazing woman.’
‘That’s the way it was. She taught art at the community centre, you know? Even when she was sick, she worried about her students missing class.’
Mrs Peterson nodded, understanding read in her eyes. ‘That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? Watching them worry about everyone else until the very end.’
It was nice to find someone who understood what it was like to feel such a huge void in their lives. Someone who knew that grief doesn’t come on a schedule and that some days are harder than others, and that’s okay.
‘Evie,’ Mrs Peterson said, setting aside her coffee cup. ‘I have a proposition for you. My family’s business needs a new personal assistant…someone I can trust. Someone with quick thinking and a kind heart.’ She smiled. ‘Do you know anyone who might fit that description? Someone named Evie!’
I looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Totally. Rebecca always said I work too hard. Maybe it’s time someone helped me share the load.’ She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. ‘What do you think?’
Looking at her hopeful expression, I felt something I hadn’t felt in months: a spark of possibility. Maybe Mum had been right that morning when she’d drawn me watching the birds. Maybe home really is something you build together, one small piece at a time.
‘Yes,’ I said, squeezing my eyes shut. ‘Yeah, I’d really like that.’
As we hugged, I realised that my life was about to change. That Christmas, I found my family again. And while nothing could replace the hole that my mother’s absence had left, perhaps with Mrs Peterson’s help I could build a new home… one that would honour the past and give me hope for the future.
Here’s another story: A month after my mother died, my father brought his young mistress home for Christmas. My heart broke, but another devastating revelation awaited me.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but for creative purposes it was fictionalised. Names, characters and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.
